ombed-out buildings offer reminders of conflicts in the recent past. Children play in a sunwashed landscape as a mine clearing team go about their dangerous work. The opening shots of Jeremy Xido’s engaging film
Death Metal Angola (2013) paint an image that, at first, seems familiar. “Angola: colonialism, slavery, war for independence, civil war,” says Wilker Flores in the voiceover, summing up the country’s last 500 years.

When we see Flores outside a building shrouded in darkness, he is strumming power chords on a beat-up electric guitar plugged into a small amp. Singing, or rather growling in the distinctive, guttural style of death metal, he cuts the figure of a latter-day electric Leadbelly, exorcising his demons in the night.
Death Metal Angola documents his efforts to galvanize the explosion of homegrown talent, organizing the country’s first death metal festival in the town of Huambo, where his girlfriend runs an orphanage. But Angola is no isolated case.

With the internet and social media facilitating the spread of culture globally, various strains of metal, especially the more extreme death metal, have found fertile ground all over Africa, from the former Portuguese colonies of Angola and Mozambique (a nascent scene documented in the forthcoming film
Terra Pesada, directed by Leslie Bornstein) to the English-speaking countries of South Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia and Tanzania. Even the East African nations of Kenya and Uganda boast burgeoning metal scenes.

Despite attracting die-hard fans worldwide, metal has never been taken seriously by the mainstream, caricatured in films like
This is Spinal Tap and ridiculed as the expression of suburban teenage angst à la
Beavis and Butthead. Comedian Richard Pryor skewered the genre in a 1977 skit, taking the stage looking like a member of KISS as the frontman of an imaginary outfit known as Black Death. In an ironic twist, a real band from Cleveland, Ohio, assumed that name a year later, becoming the first African-American heavy metal band, though they have been relegated to history as a novelty act. However, what is going on in Africa today is no novelty.

“There is a culture of rock attire in this country, and it kinda makes one feel like a rock star.”
Tumelo Matshameko, aka Stux Daemon

It all goes back to the 1990s, when metal splintered into various subgenres, including grindcore, black metal, doom, and death metal. “Death metal is the extreme genre of metal, marked by its intense speed, notably fast double bass drumming style, serious virtuosity, and deep guttural vocal delivery,” says Edward Banchs, author of a forthcoming book,
Heavy Metal Africa: Life Passion, And Heavy Metal in The Forgotten Continent. “South Africa began to produce a lot of bands that composed and recorded their own original material first,” he says, attributing this to the country’s musical infrastructure — the promoters, venues, and festivals which supported the scene — being on a par with Europe or America. Another factor was the international boycott of the 1980s, which served to economically isolate the country while simultaneously stimulating local industries. With a population of 48 million, South Africa was large enough to support a small community of metal fans, so the music gained a creative foothold on the continent while also opening up a touring market for bands like Metallica and Sepultura.

In the mid-90s, two white South African bands — Voice of Destruction and Groinchurn — signed to the German label Morbid Records, which also released a 1994 compilation showcasing the local scene,
The Death Of Africa, Volume 1. The first bands boasting an all-black lineup, such as Botswana’s Metal Orizon and Last Year’s Tragedy in Kenya, were also formed around this time, inspiring their own homegrown scenes. By the early 2000s, the music was spreading organically across the continent, producing bands like Rock of Ages in Kenya, Neblina in Angola, and female-fronted thrash metal band Sasamaso in Madagascar.

Today it’s Botswana, a small, landlocked country of about 2.1 million people, that has become the new face of African metal, largely thanks to South African photographer Frank Marshall, whose images of African metalheads geared up in leather, spikes and cowboy hats a la Judas Priest or Iron Maiden went viral in 2010.

"People may perceive us as Satanists - they perceive you how you dress - but actually I’m just a very good guy.”
Trooper

Byline?

“There is a culture of rock attire in this country, and it kinda makes one feel like a rock star,” says Tumelo Matshameko, aka Stux Daemon, lead singer and guitarist for Botswana’s premier death metal outfit, Wrust. “It draws a lot of attention even from faraway places like the States and Europe.” The band’s striking look also caught the eye of documentary maker Raffaela Mosca, whose 2013 film
March of The Gods: Botswana Metalheads goes deeper into the heart of the grassroots movement. Looking like extras from a Mad Max movie, on film the subjects of Marshall’s photographs come across as more thoughtful than their dress code might suggest. Wearing a studded cowboy hat and a tasselled leather jacket, a man who calls himself Trooper says matter-of-factly: “People may perceive us as Satanists — they perceive you how you dress — but actually I’m just a very good guy.” His friend Taliban, who serves in the army when not wearing his leather uniform, adds: “We are into the love of music and the brotherhood. The association that we have with each other is what we like.” Observing his subjects, Marshall himself is admiring: “They really are the most passionate fans of any genre that I’ve ever known.”

March of The Gods: Botswana Metalheads focuses on Stux and his band as they juggle day jobs and family, putting up posters for their own concerts just like struggling musicians everywhere. Charting their slow progress, the film culminates with their first gig outside of Africa at SoloMacello festival in Milan, where a burst of monster riffs, double bass drum blasts and Stux’s tortured howls signal their arrival on the international scene.

“When I first started the band it was fucking tough,” says Stux, who was introduced to rock when he was 13 through an hour-long program on national radio, and later through tapes of AC/DC, Def Leppard, Jimi Hendrix and Black Sabbath which the older kids in his neighborhood circulated. “It’s almost impossible to imagine that the band would have lasted this long with no [rehearsal] space – shitty guitars, no audience whatsoever, no support of any kind except from our metal brother Metal Orizon, who made it possible,” he says.

Similar sentiments are echoed in other parts of the continent. Chris Lilako Yagami of Kenyan band In Oath says starting from scratch “wasn’t easy, but we never gave up. We went onstage and got inspired by bands that had been in our position before. Metal music in general is not everyone’s cup of tea in Kenya, as is [the same] with most of the world, but the fanbase never dies and always appreciates our efforts as bands.”

“Metal will never be accepted by the mainstream in Africa. It will always be underground. And you know what? That is just fine with most of us.”
Victor Tebuseeke, aka Vickonomy

Victor Tebuseeke, aka Vickonomy, guitarist and vocalist for Uganda’s only doom metal band Vale of Amonition, agrees. “People are still sleeping on this music, and society here is just as trendy as anywhere else, and metal’s nature is of the underground quality. It is subversive, it is esoteric, and nothing will ever change that. It is a taste not many Ugandans are willing to acquire.” Metal’s Satanic associations don’t fly in this predominantly Christian country — not to mention the aggressiveness of its sound — making the music a hard sell. Like everywhere else on the planet, metal remains a subculture. “Metal will never be accepted by the mainstream in Africa. It will always be underground. And you know what? That is just fine with most of us,” says Vickonomy. What ultimately matters more is recognition and acceptance among metalheads worldwide.

“The metal community is tight. We know each other from the back of our heads,” says In Oath’s Lilako Yagami. “Shows have mostly been established by the local fanbase and supporters of our kind of music. There aren’t as many, but when there’s a show, it’s always worth it to mingle with the community and enjoy local bands.”

“We do it because we love it,” says Stux, “and it’s fun to share what you feel in front of people who understand your kind.” While social media and the internet have put the movement on the map, “it is not enough without radio sponsorship or TV,” he says. But progress can be measured by recent coverage on CNN and Vice, and bands like Wrust, In Oath, Vale of Ammonition and many more are continuing to make albums and play shows.

“There is a culture of rock attire in this country, and it kinda makes one feel like a rock star.”
[Tumelo Matshameko, aka Stux Daemon]

At the conclusion of
Death Metal Angola, Flores observes: “We are at the beginning of the story. Fifteen or 20 years from now people are going to say, ‘Hey, you’re one of the people who inspired all of us that now love and play rock.’” The advancement of any movement requires blood, sweat, and time, and though the African metal scene is almost two decades old, it’s only just beginning to make some noise.

"People may perceive us as Satanists - they perceive you how you dress - but actually I’m just a very good guy.”
[Trooper]

Byline?

Because of his beef with
Charlie Hebdo, Akhenaton didn’t march either.
“Some of the [magazine] covers were very hurtful for a lot of people, and some of them were even racist. I remember that cover with 10 black women with hijabs screaming and all pregnant saying Where is our welfare?’” He and many of his friends used to read
Charlie Hebdo, but after September 11 the paper’s agenda gradually changed, prompting him to finally speak up almost a decade ago.

“When they published the Denmark drawings in 2006 I got into an argument with them. I said, ‘You don’t drop a bomb on seven million people. You are on a dangerous path. It’s dangerous for you, it’s dangerous for the kids’. I couldn’t march. It was tough for me. Especially when that happened and they were on TV saying some rappers didn’t help. Didn’t they have something more interesting to say? ‘Some rappers didn’t help us’? Like we’re social workers?”

So what of
La Haine? Twenty years on, how has the ethnic makeup of the banlieues changed? You won’t find many Jews in gangs of youth now, acknowledges Médine. “Maybe 20 years ago it was quite a realistic image of the world in the communities, but actually what you find now is that it’s changed quite a bit, as the Jewish community have moved out. And that’s due to a number of issues, and maybe there are leaders in the Jewish community who have misrepresented the political situation there. We’re not very happy about that, that there is less diversity there now.”

“The way we grew up, it was all mixed,” says Akhenaton. “You came in from the same neighbourhood, and we were not watching the colour or the religion. And now I think fear is present, certainly since September 11. I went to school in the middle of the projects, and the other day I was driving through and I saw a crew of 25 kids, all black. I’d never seen that in this neighbourhood before. It was strange. Normally when I used to see a crew I’d see 60 people altogether, all colours. Seeing that, to me, is a bad sign of the times.”

Is it more difficult for a young Arab Muslim growing up out in the banlieues since that article appeared in
Time?

“Yes, it’s more difficult," says Médine. "The Muslim community over the last 10 years has been demonised particularly. It was difficult for a young Muslim guy from the banlieues to get on before, and after
Charlie Hebdo it has become impossible. It’s been like being in prison this last decade.”

Hip-hop represents just a tiny fraction of the infinite number of different experiences that take place within the Islamic world. As the exhibition at l'Institut du Monde Arabe demonstrates, it is vibrant, creative and inclusive – and you don't have to adhere to any belief system to appreciate it.

Looking to the future, Médine is hopeful. Stigmatisation is “actually incredibly creatively stimulating because it provokes us and gets us thinking," he states. "The Muslim community in France isn’t in a state of victimisation, we are working to improve the situation. I think there’s a danger of seeing every Muslim on a journey to being radicalised.”